The Original Sin Inn

The hotel was called the Original Sin Inn, partly because of its location in the Garden District and partly because of its reputation for depraved debauchery. If even half the stories I’d heard were true, there wasn’t a crime that hadn’t been committed under Philippe Bonté’s roof—and Bonté, for his part, had more than enough clout to keep the lawmen away.

Well, he couldn’t keep me away, not when it was a matter of life or continued death. I pushed through the front doors and into the white marble lobby with as much swagger as I could muster, and called out to no one in particular: “Where’s Bonté?”

My voice came back to me in crisp, cold echoes. The lobby was deserted.

I walked through to the bar to find it similarly empty. The blinds, half drawn, cut the sunlight into ribbons, throwing long, thin shadows onto the booths and walls.

“Hello?” I called, like an idiot.

This was a bad spot, I suddenly realized. The whole thing felt too sterile, too post-apocalyptic. Only this time the zombie was the victim. I turned to go.

“Stay awhile, Mr. Brennan,” a voice like oil called from behind. “We should talk.”

This is a continuation of my Queen of Hearts series. You can read the whole thing here if you’d like to get caught up!

It is also a response to Andy Black’s Two for Tuesday prompt, which was Ribbon Cutting. Head on over to Andy’s page to see the other stories for this week.